


Sealed Fates

by dorbee, Monocerotis



Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [5]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac!Ford, Animals, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pets, Postcards, there's a lot going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29675145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monocerotis/pseuds/Monocerotis
Summary: An uninvited guest interrupts Ford and Fiddleford’s routine caffeination. Talk of family follows, and they soon recall a missing piece of the puzzle.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096208
Kudos: 4





	Sealed Fates

It’s after breakfast, and as usual, Ford finds himself alone. Not that he’s complaining! He doesn’t want to hover when Fiddleford is busy, and he always is. Besides, their cabin is massive! There’s so much to discover, and the sense of déjà vu every corner elicits is opioid-adjacent. For example, this weird mudroom behind the kitchen! Is that what you’d call it? A place full of smelly hiking gear and rainclothes? And why did they _refrigerate_ this room—

Oh. The door’s open.

Ford furrows his brow and steps closer, searching for a cause, listening for footsteps. He sees nothing but forest when he peeks his head out the door—wait, are those disturbed leaves? It’s hard to tell. He stays there, scanning for predators or monsters, unaware of the time passing.

Bill doesn’t tip Fiddleford off to Ford’s wandering this time. He runs into him on his way to refill his coffee. It’s the draft he notices first. “Stanford?” He holds his cup with both hands as he peeks through the doorway. “Everything alright out there?” _Dear God, let the answer be yes, I’ve got enough on my plate._

Ford flinches at Fiddleford’s voice—it always sounds unfamiliar. His face is still knit with concern when he looks back. “I found this strange room,” he says, “and the door was open. That raises security concerns, so I was just…” The view yet again transfixes him. “Looking…”

Neither of them spends too much time outdoors—not anymore, at least. Fiddleford’s constant reconstructing of Ford’s life takes up his every waking moment. Meanwhile, Ford’s at risk of wandering off if left alone. A longing for freedom is natural in this environment. “Can ya watch through a window instead? Don’t want us catchin’ a fever, now.” Fiddleford pulls Ford back and shuts the door. Ford tries to stop him, but his reflexes aren’t what they once were. It’s warmer, so he relents. “I was gonna make a cup o’ joe, why not two? We could sit together a while.” Swirling his empty mug, he smiles up at his partner.

“We can sit together?” Ford asks, excited eyes darting between Fiddleford and the cup. “Oh, but weren’t you busy? If you go back to work, I won’t mind.” He acts polite, but his tastebuds are hard to ignore. He’d love coffee, and the romance will make it tastier.

Fiddleford’s grin widens. “‘Course we can, darlin’!” Taking Ford’s wind-chilled hand, he leads him into the kitchen. “Sit, get comfortable.” Ford doesn’t let go, just smiles. Fiddleford does his best to interpret the inaction. “…Do you wanna…help me make it?” He’d manage the boiling water. Everyone appreciates an extra pair of hands.

Ford comes back to reality—sometimes excess joy disrupts his brain. He nods, approaching the counter, but he stops in his tracks. He doesn’t know how to brew coffee, let alone do it well, so he steps away, motioning for Fiddleford to lead. Ford’s enthusiasm alone never takes him far, but it always makes Fiddleford smile. “I’ll get the coffeepot. Could ya fetch me a spoon? Check the drawer right o’ the sink… Your other right, dear.” That mixup wasn’t the result of amnesia—Ford was born with crossed directional wires. He says a prayer of thanks for the things that haven’t changed.

Then, there’s a sound they’ve never once heard.

Ford’s passing the spoon to Fiddleford when it pierces his ears. A shiver runs up his spine. What is it… a chirp? Trill? It’s not a bird, it resembles another animal—not a small one, not big. A medium-sized creature. The spoon clatters to the ground as he grabs Fiddleford’s shoulder. “W-What was that?” He blushes at his stuttering—there’s no brave face to show. Something _did_ get in the house. His heart’s beating out of his chest at a fear realized.

That… quack? Fiddleford would call it a quack—was startling, but he’s sure its source won’t pose any threat. He smiles, reassuring. “Think it came from the livin’ room. Want me to check for you?”

Ford nods. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Fiddleford squeezes his hand. He sets the coffeepot on the counter and enters the living room. Ford follows several feet back. At first glance, there’s no evidence of trespass. When Fiddleford crouches to check beneath the coffee table, he gasps with surprise. “What in tarnation, how’d one o’ these wander in here!?”

Ford peers over Fiddleford’s shoulder. “It’s… it’s…” He recognizes it from the journals. A plaid platypus. A plaidypus. He crawls past, picking it up without hesitation. It’s docile, flopping into Ford’s grasp and wiggling to get comfortable. He cradles it as you would a newborn. “It’s friendly. Friendly…”

_HEY FARMHAND, TOOK A PEEK INTO YOUR FUTURE AND SAW A WHOLE LOTTA THIS._

“Oh, Lord.” Fiddleford takes a seat. The creature’s pathogens concern him, but he can’t bear to take it away. “It—well, that’s a wild animal, Stanford. It belongs… in the wild.”

_GOOD LUCK WITH THAT ONE!_

Ford senses Fiddleford is uncomfortable with this loving behavior. He shyly places the plaidypus between them. It quacks(?) again and sits on its fat little butt. He stares a while before tearing his gaze back to his partner. “Yes, I’m aware,” he admits. There’s a pause, and against his better judgment, he rubs its head. It hums. “I thought I might’ve been fabricating this one, if you’ll excuse my pun. It’s too… cute. Compared to everything else.” He recalls the drawing in the journal. This plaidypus looks different… why, it’s not proper plaid, it’s horizontally striped! None of the typical crosshatching, because, “Fiddleford, it’s a juvenile!” he says, shoving it in his partner’s face. “The stripes! A baby! And it—” he pauses. “…It’s alone.” He hugs it, and it nuzzles into his shoulder.

_I am never gonna get rid—_

_YOU ARE NEVER GONNA GET RID OF THIS THING._

Shoulders slumping, Fiddleford succumbs to the tides of fate. “…Well, it’s not alone anymore, is it?” Sighing, he presses the heels of his hands into his cheeks. “I reckon if ya didn’t see its parents nearby, we won’t find ‘em in this weather.” He gazes out the window, pensive. The gusts outside are miserable, even with a plaidypus pelt.

Ford struggles to divide his attention between his partner and the plaidypus. He rocks, giving it rubs on its back while attempting to hold up his end of the conversation. “We can still search! It’s freezing, not snowing. Get our coats and boots and find the parents. Right?” He looks to the creature as if it might respond. It looks back and “quacks.” He shrugs.

_…I’m sure of what you’re gonna say, but what are our chances?_

_NADA!_

_Figured. Thanks, Billy._

“We could, but it’s gettin’ late. We’d have to turn back right quick. If you insist…” He yearns for his abandoned coffee.

Ford’s confused. “Wait, I thought you wanted to, but now you don’t. I didn’t want to, I was saying I wanted to because I follow along when you sound right.” His petting of the plaidypus is getting aggressive. He’s thinking too hard. The critter isn’t bothered by it, though—it’s… purring?

“Ya can do more than follow along, Fordsy. Please, think for yourself—but don’t go thinkin’ yourself to death.” He touches Ford’s knee as he heads for the kitchen. “How about you watch our new pal while I fix us that pot o’ coffee?”

Ford is still. No, Fiddleford will never let it stay! They aren’t possibly going to… have coffee with the plaidypus? He smiles and stands up, cradling the creature. “You’re very good, you’re so good that Fiddleford lets you stay, yeah? You’re special. You’re a special boy. You’re my special boy. You deserve to get your belly rubbed. What a cute young boy. What a cute young girl. What a cute young plaidypus.” His words devolve as he gives it belly rubs, following through on his praise. Each poke elicits a pleased wiggle from it. Each wiggle elicits an overjoyed gasp from Ford.

Any illusion that they weren’t keeping this thing has long since faded. Fiddleford can’t be bitter when Ford is brimming with joy. He hums a folktune from home, gathers his materials, and gets to work. The smell of fresh coffee soon permeates the air. “Do you remember its nestin’ habits an’ such? Best make it comfortable while it’s here.” Tapping a complex rhythm with a spoon, he grabs Stanford’s mug.

Ford kicks his legs at “it’s gonna be stayin’ here.” The verbal acknowledgment makes it so real. He combs his brain for plaidypus-related memories. “It… it lives in the forest…” he says, eyes screwed shut with deep concentration. “They live in small groups, six or less. The three of us should be fine. Do they live on riverbanks? No tracking mud inside, but something… dark and cushy. With water… we can let him swim in the sink!” When Ford lifts the plaidypus, it splays out its limbs as if it’s flying. He laughs.

Pleased by how much Ford recalls, Fiddleford grins. “Lookitchu, a veritable encyclopedia on this feller!” At the mention of the sink, he quirks an eyebrow. “Wonder how long ‘til he outgrows it, though. He’ll graduate to the bathtub soon enough.” _At least the little rascal doesn’t have fur to clog the drains,_ he thinks. _Small blessings._

“He can swim in the bathtub,” Ford says. “He can swim anywhere. I’d let him sleep in the bed and cuddle with me and be my favorite guy.” He plants a kiss on its head, taking a sniff of the breakfast aroma that comes off it. The accompanying smell of coffee is coming from the kitchen. “Need my help?” he calls.

“Oh no, sweetheart, it’s alright.” Fiddleford gives the pot a once-over, then pours its contents into each mug. Now it’s a matter of condiments. Their tastes are opposite—a packet of saccharine for Stanford, a dollop of cream for his own. They’re barely the same drink. “And heeeere we are!” He sits on the chair across from the couch and holds out Ford’s beverage. “Pipin’ hot.”

Ford sets the plaidypus next to him, grabbing the cup. He takes a long and immediate sip. It’s his firm belief that scalding one’s tastebuds is an essential part of coffee-drinking. He sighs and relaxes, holding his mug in one hand and petting with the other. “What’s kept you so busy, mister?” He says, giving Fiddleford a dreamy stare.

Fiddleford sips demurely, blushing. “This might drive ya crazy, but it’s another surprise. Bigger’n the last one, too.” His knee bounces as his gaze drifts to the sudden addition to the family. “Though forces o’ nature may’ve outdone me.”

Ford moans with faux-misery. “Oh, the suspense is killing me!” He smiles. “But I suppose a few more surprises won’t hurt.” He takes another sip of coffee—perfect artificial sweetness. Nothing tastes better than Fiddleford’s brew, but he should relearn preparing it on his own. His lover surely never dreamed of a life so centered on him. “I wish we weren’t alone out here,” he thinks aloud. “I mean, we’re splendid company, but don’t you want to get away? It could help you sleep.” Ford hopes Fiddleford doesn’t get cagey. He goes to his room no earlier than 2 and leaves by 6. What’s so important that he lives on 20 hours of sleep a week, but Ford has a bedtime?

The bags under Fiddleford’s eyes sag when the conversation turns to sleep. This time, he slurps more of his coffee. “I’d love it too, believe you me.” The remaining grant money won’t pay the mortgage forever. That puts him on a tight schedule to protect their financial cushion. Ford needn’t be informed of this. “I’ll be able to stretch my legs after this next project, at least.” Ford’s loneliness is a more difficult concern to dissuade. His frown deepens. “Wish you could get outta here sooner’n that, though. I’d lose it if I was the only person I knew around here.”

_GOOD THING YOU HAVE ME, HUH?_

_I was more thinkin’ o’ my boyfriend._

_YOU WOUND ME, FIDDLESWORTH._

“I’m in no rush to leave,” he says, truthful. “We’ll be fine anywhere if we’re together. But won’t people call after us? I mean, you’ve told me I have a family. Won’t my mother call? I’ll assume nothing of your family, but we must have lives outside each other!” He pauses and squeezes the plaidypus. “D-Do we?”

The point is salient. Fiddleford taps his fingers, and his knee bouncing picks up pace. “We… we sure do,” he says, images of their neglected relatives flashing through his mind. “I’ve only sent checks back to mine, otherwise they’d be after me right this minute. But yours—” Bill’s memory pops up, of Stanford stowing away “—The postcards!” Luckily, he has a firm grip on his mug, because his leg springs directly in the air. “Your brother Stanley’s postcards, we oughta check ‘em! I plumb forgot!”

Cheering, Ford chugs his entire mug. He hasn’t used that skill since his first PhD. He burps and picks up the plaidypus, wiggling it in Fiddleford’s face. It squeaks as it moves from side to side, and one might notice at this short distance that it’s wall-eyed. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” He’s too excited to say much else. He stands and bounces in place, waiting for the fabled postcards.

Slamming down his coffee as well, Fiddleford leaps to his feet the way only a hillbilly can. “They’re in your room, c’mon, I’ll show ya!” Off to the races, he waves for Ford to follow him.

“Wh—my room!? I sleep next to these,” he says, keeping up well, “and you never told me!?” He skids to a walk, following Fiddleford inside. “Where are they? No doubt well-hidden if it was my handiwork.”

“No siree! The oldest trick in the book!” Reaching between the bed frame and mattress, Fiddleford removes the postcards. “For sentimental reasons, maybe. I’d do the same thing if I were you.” He deposits the treasure trove into Ford’s free hand the way you might a stack of one million dollars. “Why don’tcha sit ‘n’ look?”

Ford stares at the postcards as one looks at a million dollars: fearful, awestruck. The scratchy handwriting swirls and gives him a headache. He shoves them into Fiddleford’s hands, hugging the plaidypus. “Why don’t you read first,” he manages, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He’s rocking, giving his friend head scratches.

Fiddleford’s equally nervous, but he settles next to Ford and examines the one at the top of the pile. “Hey there, Sixer,” he reads. “‘Steve Pinington’ here writing to you from sunny Pennsylvania! And by sunny I mean rainy, holy—” he blushes at the four-letter word. “Shoot. I got myself run out of Jersey, but good riddance, am I right? This next gig’s gonna be a real winner, I swear! You better not be knockin’ yourself out studyin’ too hard out there.” Not much surprises him, but his face falls as he continues. “I haven’t had the guts to call home yet, so tell Ma ‘n’ Pa I’m doin’ alright for me, will ya? Hope you’ve been doin’ alright too. Love, your brother Stan.”

Ford has a fucking fit at the contents of the card. Fiddleford doesn’t see him folding over, clutching the plaidypus, panting for breath. “I… Sixer?” He raises a shaking hand to his head. His entire body’s shaking, but it’s nothing unfamiliar. “That word puts my brain in a blender. I suppose it must evoke… powerful memories of… of Stanley. And good Gods, what was that? Run out of Jersey? What’d he do so wrong that he got run out of _New Jersey?_ Why couldn’t he call our parents—” He grimaces at a violent flash of memory. Ford’s plaidypus whines, sensing his pain, and he scritches it. “I’m sure there was a reason. Here, let me read one.” He snatches another postcard from Fiddleford. It’s far from his earlier hesitance.

“Heya Stanford. Did y’know most astronauts are from Ohio? It’s because living there makes you wanna blast into the fucking stratosphere!” Ford gets a sensible chuckle at that. Stanley understands his humor, so that’s a resemblance. “Did something at a bar that got me banned statewide, the prudes. Kentucky, here I come. Hope you’re doing great. Ma called, told me you graduated last year. I didn’t know you could do that before 22. I will never call you Dr. Pines. Love ya, write back.” He pauses, then shrugs. “Well, he’s doing better!”

Fiddleford wants to explain everything. The childhood name, the vagrant lifestyle, the aversion to home. Ford looks for answers in writing instead. He hasn’t shared these postcards, but prior Stanley news has never been good. He’s unable to match Ford’s optimism, measured it may be. “Glad to hear it. Let’s... move on, then.” He retrieves the next card, “His name’s, uh, Andrew Alcatraz, now,” and clears his throat. “Hey, smart guy. Remember the ol’ Glass Shard Beach Elementary School spelling bee? I couldn’t even spell Mississippi, but now I’m livin’ in it! Kentucky was brief—pro tip, don’t do the derby—but this place’s southern charms got me. I have pool buddies to hang around with—yeah, actual friends, can you believe it? Runnin’ outta space! I meant it when I said write back! Your pal—” Blinking, Fiddleford pauses. “8-Ball?”

Ford blinks as well before bursting out into laughter. “8-Ball? Are you serious?” he says, looking at the card. He laughs even harder when he realizes that, yes, it’s real. But his jubilance fades. “I wish there were more return addresses in common. Maybe he’s not one to settle.” I should know, he screams internally, grabbing another postcard. “Ford, I’ve never been more miserable.” He pauses. “I’m getting frostbite, sitting in an abandoned barn in Cylinder, Iowa. These are my digs until I get cash, which shouldn’t be hard. Background checks are a pain in the ass out here. The only reason I stopped. Let’s hope I don’t regret it. It’s been forever since we last spoke. Miss you all more every day. I’ll see you again real soon! Much love, Stanley.” Ford says nothing in response to that one. He sets aside the card, holding the plaidypus to his cheek and listening to it purr in his grasp. He’s mumbling something, but it’s not words.

Fiddleford puts a hand on Stanford’s back, leaning in close, his voice a tender whisper. “Is this too much? We can stop and keep goin’ later.” The next postcard is from Arkansas, so its contents are a gamble.

Fiddleford’s touch sends a rush of calm through Ford’s otherwise panicked body. Muscles he doesn’t know he has relax. He lowers the plaidypus into a less strange position. “I can handle this,” he says, indignant despite his lacking confidence. “Just… you read it.”

Fiddleford grabs what’s now the fifth in the stack, Even less confident than Ford. He turns it over and reads. “I escaped Iowa! That’s where I was when I wrote ya last, right? Gettin’ harder to remember these things. I spent so long in Kansas I forgot how to pronounce Arkansas right. Kept embarrassin’ myself when I got here, it was the worst.” That might’ve made them laugh earlier. Now there’s pointed silence. “Got a real hot date tonight, Sixer. This could be the start o’ somethin’ special. I mean, you were born special, so I gotta find that magic somewhere, right?” Fiddleford wishes he could’ve met Stan. _Someone else who understands living in Ford’s shadow,_ he thinks. His eyes wander to the foot of the card. “Take care, Stan.” It goes to the bottom of the stack. The silence continues. It’s easier to do this in silence. Not to spend any dreadful time discussing the contents. Ford grabs the next one.

“New Mexico, New _Me_ -xico. Get it? A new me. That’s what I’m thinking tonight, wrapped up in the arms of my babygirl on our 7th night of camping. No cops, no alien abductions, and I’m more in love than I’ve ever been.” His grip wrinkles the paper. “Have you ever been in love? You’re old enough now. Ha. I only say that... b-because you aren’t reading these. What can I say? They help me sleep. I love ya, Stanford. Goodnight.” He doesn’t notice he’s crying until a tear smears the ink. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he mutters, handing the card to Fiddleford and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Go on, I’m listening.”

Fiddleford’s waterworks burst. “It’s a-alright, sweetheart, don’t you apologize to me for cryin’.” He sniffs hard as he lifts the postcard on top. Idaho. “Ford, I made it last as long as I could, but y’know somethin’? New Mexico is too. Dang. Hot.” Mincing the swear on the paper once more, he continues. “First that state broke my heart, and then it broke my AC. When I broke the bank tryin’ to fix it, I decided that was three strikes, and I headed out. ‘Least it was of my accord this time. Let’s see how Hal Forrester fares in Idaho. This postcard’s from a ski resort, check it out.” It is the loveliest card he’s chosen to send. Scenic views decorate each side—the only space Stan had to write was the blue sky. “…That’s how that one ends.”

“Okay, well, that’s okay, see,” Ford says with a cautious laugh. “What a nice ski resort! and,” he grabs another postcard, “look, San Francisco’s a nice place! Now let’s see—” His uncomfortable smile drops when he reads the card. No words come when he attempts to speak. With each second that passes, his face grows more pained. He drops it to the floor and bursts into wailing tears. It lands text-side-up and reads,

_Dearest Stanford. Welcome to my last will. I have bottomed out. Woke up covered in my puke in an alley. Got a used needle stuck in my leg. The best friend I ever had besides you died a couple of nights ago. That’s fine. Whatever I have to my name goes to you guys. Please tell Ma ‘n’ Pa that I died doing something noble. I love you more than you’ll ever know._

_Sincerely, Stanley Pines._

Ford cannot recall his soul ever hurting this much.

Fiddleford’s sure no nightmare Bill cooked up could ever compare to this. Every word on that rectangle makes itself worse than the last.

_I’M OFFENDED—_

**_No._ **

_O-KAY!_

“Stanford, baby, honey, c’mere.” Fiddleford pulls his lover close. The plaidypus sandwiches itself between them. “It’s—it’s al—” It’s so _not_ alright that he won’t finish the sentence. He curls around Ford tighter. “I gotcha.”

Ford makes a few noises, attempts to speak that lead only to more tears. Fiddleford’s touch is poisonous. He doesn’t deserve it. “I killed my brother,” he whispers, pulling out of his lover’s arms and releasing the plaidypus. It sits in Fiddleford’s lap, expressing concern as Ford paces the room. He’s babbling, an intense argument between his thoughts he can’t help but vocalize. It’s something Fiddleford typically lets him express. That’s until he forms two fists and gives himself two matching whacks in the head. The ringing in his skull is the only divine punishment becoming of his crimes.

“STANFORD!” Fiddleford’s voice emerges at an alarming octave as he rockets upright and bolts to seize Ford’s arms. His strength doesn’t compare, not now or ever. Even the halfhearted resistance Ford puts up is hell for him. “You didn’t—we d-don’t know that—please!” When his strength fails, that odd quack—it’s more of a plop—resounds, indignant. They both turn their heads.

Ford glares at the plaidypus, sitting alone on the bed. _What?_ he thinks, full of spite.

It plops again. Its eyes are enormous, sad, full of genuine love and care. There’s a connection you rarely see expressed between humans, let alone human and animal. _Please don’t hurt yourself._

The voice is distinct in his mind. He’s hallucinating, and he doesn’t care. There’s mental clarity when he pulls his arms free. Not to hurt himself, but to approach the plaidypus.

“Plop.” It sticks its useless little arms out, trying to reach for him. Ford picks it up and holds it to his chest as he has several times before, turning to Fiddleford.

The plaidypus hugs Ford.

If it hadn’t somehow let itself into their home not one hour ago, Fiddleford wouldn’t believe his eyes. The gesture’s so anthropomorphic, he pinches himself in case he’s dreaming. “…Good plaidypus. Good—good little plaidypus.” He hooks his chin over Ford’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. “Very good, very, _very_ good little plaidypus.” Ford’s usually the repetitive one, but so is Fiddleford when he’s at his limit.

The plaidypus nuzzles into Ford’s chest and sighs as it purrs. Ford digs his fingers into Fiddleford’s back.

“The best little plaidypus.”

They hug for a while before Ford frees himself. The plaidypus falls asleep, letting out the cutest snuffling snores. It hurts, but Ford picks the card up off the ground, setting it picture-side up on the bedside table. It’s the Golden Gate Bridge. He smiles, bittersweet, laying alongside his new friend, who’s so friendly he might name him that. “I know it’s midday, but, could I… rest, Fiddleford?”

The word is “nap,” for future reference.

Discovering Stanley’s fate alone is a daunting task. But, as usual, Fiddleford decides that the comfort Ford’s support offers him is second to Ford’s comfort. He nods. “Go ahead, Fordsy. I’ll… I’ll give your Ma a ring while you’re out. I’m sure you’ll wake up to somethin’ better than this.” Unsure as he is, Fiddleford trudges to the door at a snail’s pace. The only respite from his horrible aura of dread is the incessant purring. It has a hypnotic quality.

Ford doesn’t notice the aura. He’s only thankful he has such a loving partner to help him through the worst of life. That’s something for which he’d always be thankful. He rests his head on the pillow and his hand on the plaidypus. Even once he’s falling asleep, he continues giving it slow, gentle pets. His last words come out through a drowsy mumble. “I love you so much, F.”

Fiddleford closes the door as quietly as possible and treks to the telephone. When he reaches the kitchen, an unfortunate fact dawns on him: The Pines’ phone number is lost to both of them. As his diaphragm seizes up, he glimpses Ford’s emergency phone numbers, held to the fridge by a magnet. At the bottom is the police department. Above it, the fire department. Above that, the poison control hotline. And at the very top… is “MA’S PSYCHIC HOTLINE.” Serendipity, he supposes. It takes a thousand years to dial each of the 10 digits, but waiting for Caryn to pick up takes even longer. Soon enough, though, there’s a click.

“You’ve reached Caryn’s psychic hotline, state your name and reason for calling, and I’ll connect you shortly.” There’s no beep, only silence.

Dire the straits may be, Fiddleford wonders why a psychic needs her clients to give her their names. He rests on his elbows as he answers. “Fiddleford McGucket. This call’s… on behalf of Stanford.” _That’s a good euphemism_ , he thinks.

Ma Pines clicks through the second “Stanford” leaves his mouth. She listened to him leave the message. No reason to start with the pre-recorded spiel, but she was a lazy queen. “Okay, what’s-ya-name, what’s happenin’? Where’s my little Stanford?” She’s not too worried yet: you can hear her filing her nails.

Caryn’s lack of suspicion helps to quell Fiddleford’s panic. It makes it easier for him to keep bending the truth. “Tired after a long day of experimentin’, don’t you worry, ma’am. This ain’t related to him.” He awaits her reply with anxious leg bouncing.

Caryn pauses. A stranger calling “on behalf” of her son, unrelated to him. Not weird by the Stanford Standard. “C’mon, talk. It’s my job to listen.”

Shocked his telltale heart hasn’t telegraphed his sins to her, Fiddleford continues. “It’s, uh, well, it’s his brother—his twin brother, Stanley. Does he—” He’s glad this conversation is taking place over the phone because he slams his eyes shut. “Does he still call? Or write?”

Caryn is no longer disinterested—she’s very interested and very concerned. “Not—not recently, no,” she says, quieter than usual. “He can’t call, and when he sends mail,” her grip on the phone tightens. She’s glad no one can see her check behind her shoulder. “It gets shredded.” She leans forward and goes to light a cigarette. “Have you heard from him?”

At the sound of a lighter flicking, Fiddleford craves a smoke of his own. “Not for… a long spell, I’m afraid,” he murmurs. “We were checkin’ the dates on his postcards, and it’s been years since we got a new one. I was hopin’ you could tell me you’ve spoken to him since then.” As if bracing for impact, he grips the countertop.

Caryn remembers their last interaction. She has today and will tomorrow. “Three years ago he got… caught talking to me here. Last time I heard his voice. Last time I got to see one of his cards was,” her voice cracks, “Mother’s Day, two years ago. I’m sure he’s sent more cards, I don’t get to see the mail. But if he hasn’t been writing you—” Her eyes go wide, and she takes a nervous drag. “Did something happen to him?”

Fiddleford crumples under the weight of his guilt, clutching the phone. “M-Mrs. Pines, I’m so sorry—” Hiccuping, he sobs into the receiver. “I w-wish I. Could tell you I kn-knew for sure.” He realizes he can’t bear to share the details with her.

Caryn covers her mouth, tears welling up in her own eyes. “Is—Is, Stanford okay? He didn’t get along with Stanley, but no one thought he’d get hurt, or—” She’s unable to finish the thought. Fiddleford weeping too hard to respond gives Caryn an idea of how Stanford is doing. He thinks he’ll faint, as does Caryn. She at least falls back with a hand across her forehead, tears streaming. “Whatever happened, I won’t be mad, just don’t tell me I lost another son, please, God, please,” she goes on like this.

The darkness at the edges of Fiddleford’s vision fades when he hears Caryn begging. “He’s alive, he’s alive, but he—he f-fears the worst about Stanley.” He leaves out the fact that he does too. “‘N’ he’s c-convinced himself it’s his fault.”

“Oh my God, Stanford, it’s not—” she realizes he’s not there. It’s just her and, “What was your name, Fiddleford McGucket? Do we need to visit? Do you need to come out here? There needs to be a discussion.” Her cigarette is already getting stubby.

Caryn isn’t up for debate, and the last thing Ford needs is Steve eating his mother for breakfast. “We can—we c-can, drop by.” He’s a man consigned to engrave his tombstone. “When should we?”

“As soon as you can, honey, we work from home,” she says, snuffing out her cigarette in the nearby ashtray. “Before you go…” She smiles through the tears. “‘We?’ What are you two? Stanford doesn’t tell me things.”

Fiddleford’s face is flushed from both crying and embarrassment. “I-I’m his, assistant.” He prays the cracking of his voice passes as part of his breakdown. “He hired m-me for an extra set of hands on one o’ his. Projects.” This might be the most difficult thing he’s ever done.

Caryn gives a sly smile. Fiddleford may not see it, but he can sense it. “Sure, sweetheart. Tell Stanford to call me before he shows up, but I won’t expect more of you flakes.” She twists the cord around her finger, a smile dropping to worry. “Anything else before I let ya go?”

“Nothin’,” Fiddleford lies before he can linger too long on the question. “Thank you, Mrs. Pines. Suppose I’ll be seein’ you soon.” Pushing himself into a vertical position, he moves to put the phone back on its hook.

A seasoned liar herself, Caryn knows he’s not spilling the beans. But he went through the wringer explaining the postcards alone. She can give him a break. “Have a safe trip,” she says, cut off by the line going dead. She sighs and lights another cigarette.

Fiddleford limps to a seat at the kitchen table, buries his face in his arms, and doesn’t move.

_…HEY._

_Now?_

_I’M NOT HERE TO CAUSE TROUBLE. HONEST._

“Honesty” and “Bill Cipher” are opposites, but Fiddleford peeks an eye open out of curiosity. _Then what do you have to say?_

_YOU’RE DOING A GOOD JOB._

There’s complete silence.

_What?_

_DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT AGAIN! ONCE WAS HARD ENOUGH!_

He furrows his brow and lifts his head. _Why say it, then?_

_BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN’T GIVE UP! YOU’RE FEELING THE WAY YOU DID WHEN THIS STARTED. YOU THINK THERE’S NO WAY FORWARD. BUT YOU’VE COME THIS FAR!_

_I have so much further to go._ He grimaces.

_YOU CAN MAKE IT! IT’LL BE WORTH IT, I GUARANTEE. AND IF I CAN’T CONVINCE YA, MAYBE THIS WILL._ Bill flashes a clip of Ford snoring, curled up with Friendly, who snores at a much higher pitch.

_…Well, thanks for the pep talk, Billy. I oughta rest, myself._ He slides off his chair and heads back upstairs.

_FORDSY WON’T BE UP FOR A WHILE, YOU’VE GOT TIME. SLEEP WELL._

Fiddleford opens his door and smiles, exhausted. _G’night, you… little devil._

It’s Bill who lifts their lifeless body into bed.

**Author's Note:**

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End file.
